Draw Your Lines
by trufflemores
Summary: 5x07-AU. What starts off as harmless escapism quickly spirals out of control when Blaine realizes that his hallucinations aren't confined to the choir room. Trigger warning: brain tumor. Heavy Blangst, but comedy mixed throughout. Kurt/Blaine.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

He doesn't admit it at first, but that corner quickly becomes _his _corner.

It's not an addiction. He knows that he can quit at any time and, really, the subsequent sleepiness tends to take away from most of his motivation for the rest of the day, disinclining him to use it _every _day.

But he still makes a point of using it as often as he can.

Because for those few minutes? It's magical.

It's a different experience. It's falling asleep without the inconvenience of tossing and turning in bed for hours. One moment he's folding his arms and trying to maintain the most disappointed expression he can, the next conceding defeat to . . . what, he doesn't know, but it's wonderful.

"Blaine!"

And then it's over.

He doesn't know what he's agreeing to each time he settles into the chair. The resentment builds in his gut every time he startles awake, once to Kitty clapping loudly in his face, a second time to Jake almost kicking his chair over with his foot ("Dude, you were completely out of it"), and finally, Schuester giving him a gentle shake with a hand.

"Come on, Blaine. Practice is over. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Fine," he assures, plastering his best, brightest smile on his face, but the movements feel stilted. All he wants is to be back in puppet world. Puppet world is nice: everyone loves him and treats him like he's part of the team. Everyone respects him. Everyone makes him feel _good._

"You are so right, Blaine."

"Why didn't I think of that? Thanks so much, Blaine!"

"You're so hard-working, Blaine, we'd never get through this without you!"

Okay, so maybe constant validation isn't exactly a healthy characteristic. Maybe most people don't seek it out. But? It feels good. And there's no harm in it. It's not like they actually _know._

And, besides, dozing off in the choir room has made him somehow slightly less abhorrent than when he was constantly offering healthy, helpful advice for their upcoming competition. (And yes, fine, he might have been out of line, but he _knew _things. He knew exactly how to win these sorts of competitions, but now one even wanted to _listen _anymore, and it just wasn't _fair._) If it endears him more to them and makes the constant negativity a little easier to bear, then so be it. Better to be a little eccentric than consistently overbearing.

Settling into his now-familiar corner, Blaine crosses his arms, fixes the sternest expression he can on his features, and lets go.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kurt demands – _real_-Kurt – and Blaine blinks, surprised, as Kurt storms into the room, one hand waving Kurt-Puppet carelessly.

"Be careful with him," Blaine says, holding up a hand to stop him from tossing the puppet around carelessly. "Hey, c'mon," he insists, getting out of his chair as real-Kurt continues swinging Kurt-Puppet halfheartedly. "You can't just toss him around like that."

"Why the hell is it a _him_?" real-Kurt demands, tossing the puppet at Blaine's feet. "What the hell are you even doing? This is _cheating, _Blaine," he snarls.

Blaine freezes, one hand already reaching for Kurt-Puppet on the floor before he looks up.

"He's lying," Kurt-Puppet retorts, animated at once as real-Kurt glowers down at him. "It's not _cheating _if it's with your own _fiancé._" Leaning against Blaine's shoulder in an exaggerated swoon, he adds, "Aren't you supposed to protect me, Blaine? You're so strong and handsome and good."

"Oh, please," real-Kurt scoffs, waving a hand. "You can't be serious. It's not even real, it's _felt._"

"_I'm _not real?" Kurt-Puppet demands in a high, strangled tone, affront bleeding through every word. "I'm more real than you'll ever be because _you're. Not. Here._"

"Stop it!" Blaine demands, but Kurt-Puppet is ignoring him, now, advancing on real-Kurt with a sort of vindictive solidarity, one hand gesticulating wildly as he speaks.

"You think you can just come back and win him over? He doesn't need you. _You _broke up with him. _You _refused to return his phone calls and flowers and cards, _you _were the one that insisted on staying away when –"

"Stop it," Blaine repeats, low, serious, as real-Kurt looks at him in utter disbelief, shaking his head slowly and vanishing. "Kurt!" he calls, even as Kurt-Puppet slouches, lacking triumph as he turns back to Blaine.

"I'm sorry," Kurt-Puppet says, but Blaine brushes him aside, a wisp of smoke, and he's alone in the choir room, head in his hands.

When his chin hits his chest, he jerks awake, looking around himself and realizing with a slightly twisted knot growing in his chest that he's alone. _It was my fault, _I _cheated on him, _he thinks, reaching blindly for his bag and slinging it over one shoulder. He looks around the choir room and belatedly realizes that Tuesdays and Thursdays are his nights to clean it; with only a moment's hesitation he writes a quick note on one of the post-its and departs, leaving the empty room behind him.

The hallways of McKinley are eerily quiet, and Blaine treads lightly down them, not daring to provoke anyone, anything. He doesn't know what he's so afraid of until a sudden voice shouts, "Hi, Blaine!" and almost tackles him.

"Don't – don't do that," he breathes, heart pounding, as Cooper-Puppet laughs, retreating a little so he's just bobbing along at Blaine's side. He doesn't trust McKinley after hours. He especially doesn't trust puppets in the form of his older brother, but he lets his wariness go as Cooper-Puppet rambles on, oblivious to his dismay.

"C'mon, Blainey, I'm just teasing! Why the long face? Are you and Kurt fighting again?"

Blaine comes to an abrupt halt at the end of the hallway, not saying anything for a moment before shaking his head briskly, insisting, "No. _No. _ We're just … having a disagreement, that's all."

"You're having a disagreement over a puppet," Cooper-Puppet enunciates.

Blaine scowls. "It's not _just _a puppet," he insists. "_You're _just a puppet."

Cooper-Puppet withdraws a little, hurt at that, before sidling closer so he can put a velvety hand on Blaine's shoulder. "Blainey," he begins.

Blaine shrugs him off. "Leave me alone, Coop. I don't want to talk about it."

"If you can't talk to me, how can you expect to talk with _him _about it?" Cooper-Puppet retorts.

Blaine opens his mouth to retort, wandering in a slow circle of the empty hall, vaguely aware in some portion of his mind that it isn't real. It can't be real. But, though he closes and opens his eyes thrice deliberately, Cooper-Puppet remains completely intact, watching him sternly.

With a heavy, frustrated sigh, Blaine slumps against the lockers, sitting on the floor. Cooper-Puppet settles across from him, hands folded in mid-air; Blaine pictures him sitting cross-legged, shaking his head to clear the thought as Cooper-Puppet speaks.

"If you miss him so much," Cooper-Puppet begins, "then maybe you need a better coping strategy. Obviously Skyping every night isn't enough."

"We don't Skype _every _night," Blaine corrects, because sometimes they miss it and it hurts, it hurts more than Blaine wants to say, but he doesn't because he can't, Kurt and he have resolved to make this _work _and neither wants to be the first to admit that they're uncomfortable but – "Oh," he breathes.

Cooper-Puppet nods once sagely. "I'm not asking you to make a life-altering adjustment," he says, "but it seems to me like ignoring your problems isn't making them go away."

"I can't actually _force _the Glee club members to like me more," Blaine reminds, some of the bitterness rising back to his throat at the thought. They hate him – _hate _him – and it's such a strong word but it's true, sometimes. Between the eye rolling and guffawing and constant dismissal, he can't help but feel like they'd be better off without him. Like if he just melted into the puppet world entirely, no one would even notice he'd left his chair.

He isn't far off. Kneading his fingers against his temples, he asks, "What do you think I should do?"

"I think you should talk to Kurt," Cooper-Puppet says, resting a hand on Blaine's shoulder soothingly. "If you miss him this much, then I'm sure he misses you, too."

"And if he doesn't?" Blaine asks. The words make his heart ache, but he can't deny the possibility. Kurt thrived last year in New York, staying strong long after Blaine crumbled to pieces. The idea that maybe Kurt is struggling with the distance still is difficult to wrap his mind around; every instinct he possesses screams that Kurt really is adjusting fine without him.

"He's your fiancé," Cooper-Puppet insists. "Of course he does."

And that's all he needs to hear, really, because it's true. Blaine can picture Kurt's face, then, his eyes brimming with delighted tears as he chokes out a simple, "Yeah. _Yeah._"

It's the most beautiful declaration Blaine's ever heard, and every conviction he's ever had about Kurt and his relationship was solidified in that moment.

If he's missing Kurt, then Kurt's missing him. Kurt is such a fundamental part of his being that, he knows, he can't be the only one. He can't be alone.

"Thanks, Coop," he tells Cooper-Puppet, even as the empty hallway answers him, hauling himself to his feet and struggling against the mounting headache behind his eyes.

It's easy to ignore on the drive back to his house, his thoughts distracted. He almost crashes into a stop sign when Sam-Puppet pops out of nowhere into the passenger's seat, smacking a piece of gum noisily. "Hey, you got any more?" he asks, even as Blaine digs one-handed into the glove department and tosses him a pack, heart still racing from the unexpectedness of his arrival. "Thanks," Sam-Puppet says, vanishing without another word as Blaine breathes out slowly and keeps driving.

He pulls gratefully into his driveway and barely remembers to put the car in park before wrestling out of his seatbelt and stumbling out of the car. "Everything okay?" Marley-Puppet asks as he pries open the door, ignoring her.

"You're looking kind of green," Artie-Puppet acknowledges, wheeling alongside him towards the stairs. He hears his mother call out a greeting, responding shakily that he's sick before climbing the stairs, leaving a disgruntled Artie-Puppet behind.

He almost loses his white-knuckled grip on the railing when he reaches the summit and finds Artie-Puppet already there, gently pushing him out of the way and storming off to his room. Marley-Puppet tries to intercept him once more, Jake-Puppet accompanying Tina-Puppet before he slams the door on all three of them. Holding it shut and squeezing his eyes closed as he hears a familiar, worried, "Blainey-days? Are you all right?" he staggers away from the door and sinks down onto his bed instead, prying off his shoes and tugging the comforter over his head.

"Talk to him," Cooper-Puppet insists, somewhere far away – underwater, maybe. Blaine feels like he's drowning, sleep a heavy, overbearing fog that pulls him unrelentingly under.

When he awakes, tangled in his sheets with his mother's worried face above him, one of her palms retreating from his forehead, the puppets are gone. He licks his lips, mouth cottony and head heavy, before asking in a slightly raspy tone, "Where are they?"

"Where's who?" his mother asks, brushing his hair off his forehead.

Fixing lazy eyes on her, almost flinching when she resolves briefly into a puppet version of herself, he shakes his head and presses his face against the pillow instead, retreating back into dreamless, mindless sleep.

When he wakes a second time, his stomach is growling. Making his way shakily out of bed, he relieves himself and takes a moment to freshen up, noticing the darker shadows under his eyes, a slight frown pursing his lips at the sight.

"You can't keep going on like this," Kurt-Puppet whispers, materializing in the mirror beside him. "You need to talk to him. Or someone."

Blaine closes his eyes, not responding at first. "I can't keep listening to you," he says, opening them, and Kurt-Puppet is gone. Letting his shoulders slump a little in relief, he reaches for his toothbrush, almost jumping out of his skin when Kurt-Puppet says, "I know, but you _can _take a word of advice away from me."

Swallowing back his unease, Blaine stumbles out of the bathroom, knotting a bowtie shakily into place before checking the time. _6:52 PM._ Frowning at it, he picks his phone out of his pocket, holding it to his ear and pursing his lips as it rings.

And rings.

And rings.

Finally, out of breath, Kurt responds, "Hey," and Blaine smiles a little in spite of himself, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Hey," he echoes, and then, bluntly, "I just really needed to hear your voice." _And not Kurt-Puppet's, _he doesn't say, because he loves Kurt-Puppet. He does. He loves all his puppets, and they love him, but.

He didn't get engaged to Kurt-Puppet, he got engaged to _Kurt, _and the sort of breathless way Kurt says, "_Oh,_" makes any potential awkwardness at calling him for no reason at all dissipate. "Hi, Blaine." A beat later: "Are you going to apologize again for missing the performance? Because you really don't have to."

"No, no," Blaine assures, anything to please Kurt. "No, I just –" he waves a hand, grasping at words. "I just really wanted to hear your voice," he echoes.

"It's good to hear yours again, too," Kurt admits, lush, _real, _and Blaine wonders how he could ever possibly want to replace him. "Except I hate to pull this card but my break ends in five minutes. I'll call you back soon?"

"Sure!" Blaine says, too eager, quick to hide his disappointment as he adds, "That's fine, Kurt. I love you."

"Love you, too," Kurt says, hanging up.

A single forlorn knock comes at the door, followed by a soft, "Blaine?" Without thinking, Blaine rises to answer it, smiling weakly at Kurt-Puppet as he lets him inside. "I know this is hard," Kurt-Puppet says, idling after him and settling on the bed beside him. "But, really, we're gonna get through this." He rests a hand over Blaine's and, even though it isn't real, Blaine can almost feel the warmth from it, can almost picture real-Kurt shuffling closer to press a kiss to his cheek, carding his fingers through his hair.

When he nods and puts Kurt-Puppet aside, reaching up to rub the sleepiness from his eyes, he tucks the puppet carefully back into the box with the others, not wanting to disturb any of them from their own sleep. Padding out of his room and downstairs, he finds leftover Thai on the table, a note from his parents letting him know that they'll be back in a few hours.

Picking over the food, he sends Tina an absentminded text as he gulps down another mouthful of noodles, asking, _What did I miss?_

Tina's response is slow to come, confused. _What do you mean?_

_I missed Glee club practice, _Blaine reminds, a little irked that his presence literally did go completely unnoticed. _What did Mr. Schue have you do?_

_Nothing much, _Tina responds, several minutes later, and Blaine lets out a heavy sigh at the non-forthcoming explanation about their lesson for the week. He's barely been present enough to notice one Glee rehearsal from the next; lessons for the week just lack their usual luster. Looking down at his phone when it buzzes a second time, he can't help but soften a little at the, _Are you okay?_

_I'm fine, Tina, _he replies, setting his phone aside and glancing at the time.

And maybe it's silly, or maybe it's just a product of his boredom, but he feels better when he pulls Kurt-Puppet back out of the box and sets him up carefully beside him on the bed, turning on Treme and letting his grip on reality loosen.

And if Kurt-Puppet's acerbic comments are a little too spot-on for comfort, Blaine doesn't comment, instead laughing along with the worst and gratefully descending into a sort of peaceful madness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

"Dude!"

Blaine startles awake as Sam snaps his fingers in his face, sitting up straight in his chair and blinking in surprise. "What's going on?" he asks, words slightly garbled as he reaches up to rub his face. A quick glance at the clock on the wall shows that it's almost 3:30 PM; wincing, he sits up gingerly in his chair, back aching from staying in one place for so long. Rehearsals never run more than two hours at a time, but the grinding pain refuses to yield even as he twists carefully around, trying to alleviate some of the worst of it.

"You slept through rehearsal. Again." Sam's voice is clipped, his irritation frank; Blaine can almost feel the waves of disapproval radiating off him. He has his arms folded, too, his expression one of genuine disappointment as he adds, "Do you even care about nationals anymore?"

"What?" Blaine's mouth feels fuzzy, his thoughts heavy with disbelief as he looks up at Sam. "Of course I do."

"Yeah, well, you're not exactly acting like it," Sam insists, making a frustrated gesture with his hands as he unfolds his arms. "This is _nationals, _Blaine," he says, tapping a fist against a hand emphatically as he paces. "While I totally get that you have some great ideas that could help us win, you can't turn into a Rachel about it just because the rest of the Glee club doesn't agree with you."

Blaine blinks, dumbfounded, as he looks up at him, crossing his legs and frowning. "A Rachel?"

"You can't throw a bitch fit," Sam elaborates, dragging the piano bench over so he can sit across from him, concern and aggravation warring for dominance. Concern wins, the harsh lines around his mouth dissipating as he sighs. "It's not cool," he says simply. "We need everyone to be in on this. We need to be a _team._"

Blaine opens his mouth to insist that he _is _part of the team, that he _wants _to win nationals, before closing it without saying a word. He knows that Sam is right; dozing off during the middle of their rehearsal is counterproductive. They can't win if someone doesn't pull his own weight. He _knows _that, but admitting it is harder, especially when his initial ideas were shot down so quickly. All he'd been doing was helping them; trying to rally the same enthusiasm days later is hard.

Still.

"Okay," he agrees quietly, and then, gaining momentum, nods as he repeats a little more loudly, "Okay, fine."

Sam scrutinizes him for so long that Blaine half-wonders if he drooled in his sleep (Kurt did tease him once about it, but Blaine was so sure he was kidding then and now the mortification threatens to overwhelm him) before, at last, Sam speaks. "Good," is all he says, squeezing his knee once, an odd expression on his face. "And I'm sorry for yelling but we need you, Blaine. We can't do this without _everyone, _and that includes you. Even when you are throwing a bitch fit."

"I'm not throwing a bitch fit," Blaine grumbles, half-wondering if he still is. He hasn't abandoned his corner, after all, and he knows that it induces exactly what Sam is propositioning that he avoid: an exit from reality, a pleasant distraction from the hard truth.

Because, with the exception of that time when _real Kurt _intruded, the daydreams have been nothing but pleasant. They sing, they dance, and they choreograph together: Nationals couldn't be a lesser concern on Blaine's mind because in puppet world they all know that what they're doing and it is going to help them win. It doesn't matter that it's not specifically geared towards a weekly lesson or an upcoming holiday. Performing is fun for its own sake, and Blaine isn't about to turn it down when the alternative is halfhearted compliance at best and open defiance at worst.

Still. He's the new Rachel and, even with opposition on all sides, strangely enough, no one has arisen to directly challenge his claim to it.

They _want _him to be in charge, even if they don't want his ideas.

It's maddeningly, head-inducingly complicated, and Blaine can't help but sympathize with Rachel Berry in that moment as he reaches up to press his palms to his eyes.

"Hey," Sam says, giving his knee a bit of a shake and drawing him back to the present, forcing him to look at him or look weak and intimidated instead. He braces himself and looks, dull-eyed confusion melting quickly into sharper-edged determination as Sam says, "Stop zoning out on me. We need you."

_You don't need me, _Blaine thinks, _they do._

But he nods all the same, putting on a reassuring smile as he says, "I'll … be more attentive. Next time."

Sam looks skeptical, but all he says is, "Good," as he gets to his feet. "Don't forget; study session tomorrow night, eight o'clock, Tina's house."

Blaine doesn't even remember being told about any study sessions, nodding along even as panic tightens in his throat. Fishing his phone out of his pocket and checking it for new messages, he forces himself not to flinch from the sixty-three new messages crowding his inbox, nine voice mails anxiously awaiting his response.

Sam is already gone, leaving him alone in the choir room, methodically scrolling through the messages and answering the most urgent ones. Two from Kurt – _We got another gig! _– and then _Call me later? _are easy to placate. Tina's nineteen inquiries about after school plans coincide with as many complaints about his lack of responsiveness. He saves the dates and times and deletes the rest en masse, working his way through the rest as quickly as he can as he slings his bag over his shoulder, padding out of the choir room.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Blaine almost drops his bag in surprise, fumbling for his phone as he whirls with a stuttered, "C-Coach!" already on his lips before he freezes.

"Cheerios' practice started twenty minutes ago!" she rants, her flat mouth equally terrifying in puppet-form. "Where the hell were you?"

"I was just – I'm –" Blaine makes a helpless gesture over his shoulder, as though he can somehow mislead her that way. "I'm on my way."

"Get moving!" Coach Sue-Puppet demands.

Blaine needs no further encouragement, almost running headlong into Kitty into the locker room. "Watch where you're going, hobbit," she snarls, tossing her ponytail at him as she joins the rest of the Cheerios pouring out to the field.

Scrambling to get in uniform, Blaine almost rips his shirt off in his haste to get it over his head, grateful that he's already wearing the right undergarments as he pulls on his Cheerios' pants and shirt, hustling out to join them on the field. Thankfully, Coach Sue is feeling in a particularly vindictive mood as she blows her whistle, the rest of the Cheerios mobilizing as a single unit, jogging around the track.

Blaine spares her a glance as he hurries to join them, grateful for the excuse not to talk to anyone.

It isn't that he particularly _likes _being a Cheerio, especially with the amount of verbal and physical abuse endured, but … he _does_. Much like the Sue 90x routine (which he still, admittedly, pulls out on occasion, mostly because Kurt – being Kurt – didn't believe he could actually _bend in half _until Blaine proved him wrong and realized that ulterior motives were definitely involved), Cheerios' practices are refreshingly uncomplicated.

Listen to Coach Sue's orders. Follow them. Don't get killed. Simple as that, really.

Of course, flexibility, endurance, and sheer blind determination to comply with said-orders is key, but the girls all want the scholarships and he wants the satisfaction. It works for them. It works for _him._

_You can do this, _he tells himself, a little dizzy from the run as Coach Sue finally blows her whistle. _Come on. It hasn't been that long._

He forces himself not to bring up the fact that he hasn't stretched yet and his calf muscles are _aching _as he falls into formation instead. "Five, six, seven, eight!" Coach Sue belts, and Blaine looks over and almost trips over his own feet when Becky-Puppet hurries over to her side. "What do you want?" Coach Sue-Puppet snaps, and Blaine has to blink once, twice, three times before the real images rule out the false ones, breathing hard.

Of course, in the intervening time he's already missed a step, grunting when one of the Cheerios whirls into him, knocking them both over. Blowing her whistle hard, Coach Sue halts the exercise as she snaps, "Anderson!"

Blaine doesn't get up at once, even knowing that it will incur even more wrath in the end. Even the scalding humiliation of missing step so obviously isn't enough to immediately get him moving again. What does make him move is a second "_Anderson!_" in a noticeably higher pitch, as he climbs to his feet and reports to Coach Sue-Puppet for his just rewards.

"What the hell's wrong with you? You're not focused, you're not even remotely engaged – it's like you don't even care anymore!"

"Of course I care," Blaine mutters, because he _does, _and the implication that he doesn't hurts. He's put in so many hours that he can't fathom _not _caring; countless hours spent after school working on various projects for various clubs, logging more time both on and behind the scenes than any other student. Of course he _cares._

"You showed up fifteen minutes late!"

It doesn't occur to Blaine to retort that she couldn't have _known _– Coach Sue has eyes in the back of her head – as he says, "I lost track of time."

"Lost track of time? How the hell could you have lost track of time?"

Blaine opens his mouth to retort, swung by a sudden surge of vertigo that almost brings him to his knees.

"Being a Cheerio is not a game," Coach Sue-Puppet is saying, as the lines blur and her normal terrifying demeanor replaces her slightly less terrifying counterpart. "We don't have time for slackers. So either get moving or get off the team."

Blaine nods once, twice, before retreating back to the thick of the squad, suddenly, disconcertingly unsure about whether or not any of it was real beyond that point. _Of course it was, _he thinks, even as he listens to the next round of orders and takes special care to obey.

He's aching by the end of it, exhausted to his core as he stumbles back into the locker room, gratefully stripping under one of the showerheads and setting his clothes aside. Letting the hot water scald his back feels good; scrubbing off the hard exertion of sweat, grime, and grass feels even better.

"She works you way too hard."

Kurt-Puppet is leaning against the shower wall, arms folded contemplatively, and Blaine lets out a slow sigh as he turns away from him, shaking his head.

"Go away, Kurt-Puppet," he says, too tired to deal with any more questionable sightings. It's probably his own fatigue cooking up the unusual prevalence, he decides, as he rinses his hair out.

"You can't keep letting her do this to you, Blaine," Kurt-Puppet insists. "You need to stick up for yourself."

"I do stick up for myself," Blaine reminds, turning to face him.

"You don't do it enough," Kurt-Puppet says seriously, nodding emphatically. "If you want anyone to listen, then you have to stand your ground. You can't just let them walk all over you."

Pursing his lips at that, Blaine turns back to the showerhead and says to the wall, "Do we really need to have this conversation _now_?"

He can almost hear Kurt-Puppet retreat in on himself, deflating at Blaine's rejection. "She works you way to hard," he insists softly.

Blaine doesn't need to look then to know that he's gone.

Nodding slowly to himself, Blaine doesn't say anything for a time as he shuts off the faucet and focuses on getting dressed instead. In the end, he towel-dries his hair, stuffs his take-home bag with his clothes, and pointedly ignores the whispered echo of Kurt-Puppet that nags at the back of his thoughts, urging him to confront Sue, to resign, to do _something._

He can't. Being a leader, being a Cheerio, being a Glee club member - it's simply what he does.

And if being a hero in puppet world is another part of the job, then at least he can make them leave him alone when he doesn't want to talk anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

"So, Pamela Lansbury booked its next gig," Kurt begins, excitement evident in his tone. Blaine can almost hear him idling around the lounge, one hand toying with a glass and a bottle while the other holds his phone to his ear. Keeping his own eyes closed as he leans back against the bleachers, he can picture his movements easily, a small smile quirking his lips in spite of the throbbing behind his eyes. He wasn't expecting Kurt to be so cheerful but, aside from a quick _You don't have to apologize, the flowers were enough; although if you're not careful I think Rachel's going to insist on marrying you first, _he hasn't shown even a speck of resentment that Blaine couldn't make his first gig. Sure, he was upset, and he wasn't afraid to say that, but it clear isn't the issue anymore as he adds, "I know we didn't get to talk about it much before, but it's at the – wait for it – _Williamsburg Music Hall._"

"The one in Brooklyn?" Blaine asks, incredulity coloring his tone as he blinks up at the overcast sky, trying to picture Kurt and his band performing at such a big venue so soon.

"Yes, the one in Brooklyn," Kurt says, a little wounded but still overall clearly delighted as he pops the lid on his drink. "Where else? We're scheduled to perform next Thursday."

"That's amazing," Blaine says.

Kurt's ruffled feathers ease considerably at that, an easy laugh escaping him as he says, "Isn't it? I couldn't believe that our _one _patron turned out to be the grandfather of the owner. He agreed to plug our name in at a couple other places, but we haven't heard back from any of them yet." Filling his glass, Kurt adds, "What's your schedule like? Do you think you can make it?"

Blaine only hesitates a moment before assuring, "Kurt, I wouldn't miss it." He knows that he'll have to pull a few strings – student council is winding up for the year, and the demands are already staggering to pave the new way for the next year (and ensure that Glee club isn't excluded from the benefits) – but to see Kurt perform on a stage in front of hundreds of people for the first time? He wouldn't miss it.

His gut twists at the reminder that he already missed his first opportunity. At least their one audience member was appreciative, he reminds himself. It would be different this time; he knew it would. And he would make sure that he was there. He wouldn't let Kurt down again.

"So, are you planning anything special this week?" Kurt asks, changing the topic.

Blaine sighs, and Kurt responds with a simple, "That bad?"

"No, it's just – end-of-the-year," he says, as though it explains all.

Judging by the affirmative noise that Kurt makes, he understands. "Well, you made it through prom," he teases, and Blaine lets a rueful smile cross his lips in spite of himself. "_And _you avoided getting slushied in front of hundreds of students," he adds.

Blaine's expression sobers at the reminder. Sometimes it's easy to forget that their one-time glory as national champions existed; its evaporation was so abrupt that Blaine wonders if he didn't just imagine it.

"How is Tina?" Kurt asks, and Blaine can't help but notice the slightly defensive note in his voice.

Ever since the Vapor Rub Incident, Kurt and Tina have walked a fine line in amicability. While Tina maintains that Kurt and he weren't actually together at the time, she hasn't refrained from apologizing to Blaine several times since. He knows that she meant well and he takes it in that light, brushing off the apologies and assuring that they're still friends, regardless of misunderstandings. Kurt, however, hasn't benefited from the same treatment: Tina doesn't seem to think it's necessary to apologize to _him _aside from indirect references to a certain phase where she might have overstepped a line, a fact that Blaine knows bristles Kurt's pride like nothing else.

"She's fine," Blaine says at last, selecting the most innocuous response possible, and Kurt relaxes.

"You're not still having trouble with the rest of the New Directions, are you?" Kurt asks, and Blaine can almost see him reclining against a couch, his body curving into it as the couch releases a gentle whoosh of air. With a longing that almost overwhelms him, he has to shake his head to remember Kurt's question. The pounding behind his temple reignites with a vengeance, and he lifts a hand to press against it even as he speaks.

"The New Directions are the New Directions," he says. He accepted the crime of coming across too strong and apologized; ever since, they've been back on agreeable terms. "At least we're working on a set list for nationals now."

Kurt nods, a brief pause before he adds, "That's good." Tilting his head away from the phone to speak to someone unseen, he points out, "Rachel's home. She says hi."

"Hi, Rachel," Blaine echoes reflexively, smiling a little as he hears her call back over the phone, "We miss you!"

"It's only been two weeks," Blaine notes, amused.

"Well, you did bring a piano last time," Kurt points out, and Blaine laughs.

He didn't mean to bring it. In fact, he wanted to be subtle with his first real housewarming gift: maybe candles or dish towels or cookies, something domestic and nice but not overly expensive. It wasn't until he mentioned the idea that his mom threw out the idea of the piano. It was older – a little worn around the edges, well-loved – but it came from her studio and she didn't mind giving it to him. With some tuning and a little more love, he'd brought it back to good condition and, after much persuasion, convinced Sam to bring it to New York with them.

It was a nightmare getting up the stairs – he somehow forgot that Kurt lived on the _fourth floor _– but thankfully, once it was settled in, they loved it. Even Santana, notoriously difficult to buy for and hypercritical of any attempt at 'winning over' that could be made, seemed pleased with the newest contribution. It didn't hurt that Sam helped him move it in, either, even if they had almost dropped it three floors up, Kurt warning them to be careful the entire way while Rachel gleefully explained all the reasons why they had needed a piano and how much fun they would have with it.

"Dani wants to meet you," Kurt adds.

Blaine frowns, confused. "But I've already met Dani?" he says, blinking up at the sky when he feels a couple raindrops land on his jeans. The bright red keeps the worst at bay, and it doesn't look like more is coming, but he keeps one hand on his satchel, ready to move if need be. "Unless that wasn't actually Dani?"

"No, no, that was Dani," Kurt assures, and Blaine can hear several voices in the background, now: Rachel and Santana, maybe. "She wants to take you out for a drink sometime," he explains. "She feels like it's not official yet. We went out for celebratory drinks the other night and she could not stop talking about it. 'You should bring your boyfriend, Kurt!' 'He is not my boyfriend, he's my _fiancé_.'"

Just the way Kurt says it makes Blaine's heart skip a beat, a smile curving his lips as he shuffles his feet on the bench. "Well," he hedges, not wanting to agree when he still doesn't know how many commitments he'll be putting on hold as a result, "we only have six more weeks until summer. And we still have ring-shopping to do. . . ."

The mere prospect of shopping with Kurt for a matching ring is enough to boost his mood considerably, the headache forgotten as Kurt immediately dives into an explanation about several of the local ring shops that he's already been perusing that are well within their budget and strong contenders. The beautiful thing about New York is that they can ring-shop together without attracting unwanted side-eyes or awkward questions about 'What's she like?' Kurt's already browsed on his own, but he wants Blaine to be there, too, and Blaine suspects that it isn't just about his opinion, but also the public finality of it.

_This is my fiancé._

Blaine certainly wants to tell everyone he meets about Kurt; it doesn't surprise him that Kurt feels the same way.

Opening his mouth to respond, Blaine closes it as a stab of pain slices through his thoughts, momentarily unseating him in the conversation. He comes back to the present as Kurt says, "So, you'll keep me posted when you can come in?"

"Of course," Blaine agrees, grateful that his voice is level.

"Good," Kurt replies. Blaine can hear the smile in his voice and it makes the throbbing behind his eyes a little easier to bear as he adds, "I love you."

"Love you, too," Blaine manages, hanging up before Kurt can ask about the tightness in his voice and dropping his head into his hands, kneading at his temples with his fingertips.

He's gotten headaches before – everyone has – but the sharpness of this one makes the tiny, almost wholly irrelevant pattering of the rain piercing. Groaning softly in discomfort, he hunches inward a little before forcing himself to take a deep breath and sitting up, gathering his satchel more firmly over his shoulder and climbing carefully down the bleachers.

Without Kurt to distract him, his head aches with a vengeance, and he stumbles over the final step, almost knocking his shoulder against the bleachers themselves. He'd thought – hoped – that spending some time outdoors might curb the worst of it, but it seems to be having the opposite effect, exacerbating the pain rather than reducing it.

Hurrying back to the school as the rain begins to drizzle, he steps under the fluorescent light and almost comes to his knees, momentarily blinded.

Stumbling a little, he fumbles the door to the nearest classroom and lets himself inside the dark classroom, shutting the door behind him and twisting the lock. He knows that students aren't supposed to monopolize these spaces, especially after hours, but he can't help it, finding the nearest desk and dropping his bag onto a chair. Sliding into a different seat and resting his head in his hands, he sits in the dark and waits for the pain to subside, his fingers curled against the sides of his head tightly.

_You're just stressed, _he chastises himself. _Stop stressing so much._

"Blainey days?"

When he hears Tina-Puppet's voice, he blinks, lifting his head and looking at Tina-Puppet and Jake-Puppet sitting at a table across from him and offering a weak smile.

"What's going on?" Jake-Puppet asks, sidling over to him and sitting next to him.

"Nothing," Blaine says, and he's surprised to realize that it's true, reaching up to run a hand over the formerly tender spot on the left side of his head and marveling. "I feel great."

"In that case, we need your help – think you feel up to it?" Jake-Puppet asks, punching him lightly in the shoulder.

Blaine licks his lips, hesitating – there was something that he needed to do, but . . . "Okay," he agrees. "What is it?"

"I really don't know what to do about this whole Marley situation," Jake-Puppet begins, and with the startling suddenness of a dream, Marley-Puppet appears in the corner, Blaine's gaze falling on her as she folds her arms and sniffs, nose pointed up and eyes averted. "I just want to make amends, but I feel like I can't do anything right. And I wouldn't ask you to fix this, but I know you're the smartest guy in Glee club and you've dealt with this sort of thing before, so maybe you could help me out?"

Blaine watches Marley-Puppet's movements carefully, unsure how to respond. "You could . . . try singing about it?" he offers, and Jake-Puppet's expression lights up as he looks at Marley-Puppet thoughtfully. "I mean, I know it's not going to fix everything, but . . . sometimes it helps. To get your feelings out there." Then, confidingly, he leans forward and points out, "You were sort of a jerk to her in Glee club."

"I know," Jake-Puppet admits, sad and serious. "I don't even know what I was thinking."

Blaine opens his mouth to say that he doesn't, either, before jerking awake as his elbow slips just so, startling back to the present. It's dark and the rain has intensified to a steady downpour, a soft groan escaping him as he sits up, stretching carefully. His back aches and it takes him a moment to realize that it's well after four thirty, a yelp escaping him as he hurriedly makes his way to his feet and out the door.

Tina is just wrapping up the minutes when he knocks on the door and steps in the room, flushed and apologetic as he settles into the head seat. "I'm sorry, I lost track of time," he says, clearing his throat as he adds, "Thank you, Secretary Cohen-Chang."

Tina eyes him worriedly for a moment and Blaine wonders if his gel came loose in the rain – God knows he looks like Medusa when it does – before clearing his throat and announcing, "We have six weeks until graduation, which means –"

Something – skips, then, some internal wire snaps, because the brief tangle that slips out of his mouth than resembles nothing coherent. Clicking his mouth shut, horrified, he sucks in a slow, measured breath before letting it out and repeating, very carefully, "We have six weeks until graduation. Which means our main focus should be on future reform."

Thankfully, it comes out clearly that time, and as he plows ahead, gaining momentum and confidence and refusing to let anyone comment on the slip up. When no one does, he relaxes into the role, barely conscious of his own presence as they bounce priority ideas back and forth among themselves. The underclassmen respect him in a way that he hasn't seen since Dalton, looking for his authority and visibly distressed without it. Adding to that, Tina and Sam defer to his expertise, preferring the validation of his approval to the alternative.

It takes him half the meeting before he realizes that Sam isn't there, blinking in surprise as he halts mid-speech and asks, "Where's Sam?"

"He's at an interview," Tina answers, side-eyeing him as though she can't believe that he missed that, and it takes him a moment to realize that she's Tina-Puppet once more. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," he insists, glancing at the skeptical and concerned around him before insisting a little more forcefully, "I'm fine. Does anyone have any further suggestions?"

When no one volunteers, he adjourns the meeting, feeling more worn than he has in weeks as he settles back in his chair.

"Let me give you a ride home," Tina says, resting a hand on his shoulder when he refuses to meet her gaze, aware of the piercing white pain that makes him curl his fingers into loose fists.

Blaine considers refusing, not wanting to impose.

"Just because you're the best doesn't mean you can't accept help," Jake-Puppet reminds.

Blaine turns to find him, but he's gone, Tina following his gaze and asking, "Blaine?"

"Sure," he agrees, smiling as best as he can with his temples aching as he gets out of his chair. "Thank you."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Thank you, thank you, thank you for your support.

As always, you are wonderful and I hope you enjoyed. More coming soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

The Warblers were never perfect. There were confrontations and disagreements about song choices and soloists. There were even moments when it seemed like the entire group would dissolve into factions, an idea that was supposedly impossible with the Council in place. Without an arbitrary leader calling the shots, and with Council seats capable of being overturned, everyone was aware of everyone else's power. Older members had seniority, but even newer members could call them out if the forwardness spread to interfering levels.

But the Warblers were a well-rounded, coherent, acapella group. The Warblers had scholarship money and reputations at stake. The Warblers could not exist on a purely individual level, because acapella is, by nature, a group undertaking.

Blaine is beginning to realize that the New Directions are the closest thing to a show-choir anarchy.

He hopes to reach a point of uncaring soon, but even after his resolution _not _to interfere, he can't help but wince at the disorder as he steps into the choir room.

Jake and Marley are still fighting and therefore not speaking to each other; they sit on opposite sides of the choir room, arms folded and bodies turned away from each other. Tina and Kitty are arguing heatedly about song selections for Nationals, which they were _supposed _to have decided on two weeks ago but, Blaine decides firmly, are not his concern. Unique is crossing off ideas on the white board, evidently recording the final tallies. Artie has claimed the sole seat beside Brad, engaging in a doubtless one-sided conversation about cinematography. Blaine casts Brad an appreciative look in passing as he claims the nearest seat to the wall vent that he can find. Sam and Ryder haven't made an appearance yet, but he isn't worried; as long as Sam is around, then he doesn't need to call them to order, anyway.

They aren't the Warblers. They don't need his input.

_New Directions, _he muses, closing his eyes against the headache threatening to split his skull in two.

He's been sick before show choir competitions before. If anything, it's rapidly becoming a habit. He lost his voice six weeks before his first sectionals competition with the Warblers (sending Wes into hysterics for the better part of a week before his voice finally came back enough that he could sing) and succumbed to food poisoning three days before regionals. The bus ride to nationals last year was even more stressful and exhausting than he'd thought it would be, and Mercedes coming down with the flu _the day of _the competition had put all of them on edge. Thankfully, he'd avoided that pitfall and managed to enjoy the rest of the trip thoroughly; it hadn't hurt that pool time with Kurt was actually a thing, in spite of Kurt's initial protests about the chlorine ruining his hair.

It'll pass, he reminds himself soothingly, even his temples ache. The pain is constant but bearable. As long as he doesn't push himself – which, he knows, he tends to do around competitions – then it'll go away and he'll be able to perform and they'll all enjoy the competition more.

He's looking forward to it. In less than four weeks, they'll fly out to LA to compete together for the last time. His shoulders ease even as Tina and Kitty's voices rise, knowing that after nationals there's graduation, and then three short months before _Kurt._ He might have to put up with stress-induced headaches and New Directions craziness now, but in four short weeks he'll be kicking back in LA, worry-free. Jake has already mentioned meeting up with Puck, and Blaine knows that he won't be able to avoid Cooper, but he's still secretly hoping that Kurt will come out to watch them perform. Plane tickets are expensive, but he's willing to pay for it if Kurt isn't, and he knows that Kurt can get the time off at work if he needs to.

It'll be fun. If nothing else, it'll be the last obstacle that he needs to overcome before graduation.

A tiny smile quirks his lips even as Tina slams down a folder in frustration, Kitty already building up steam for what sounds like an impressive tirade.

"Guys. _Guys._"

That's Sam, then, Blaine thinks, eyes still closed as he listens to the cacophony quiet a little. Ryder must be on his heels, if the second set of footsteps is anything to go by. He doesn't open his eyes yet, letting Sam take the lead as the New Directions slowly reassemble into a quasi-cohesive group. It takes surprisingly little to reign them under control again: whereas Warbler debates, though far fewer and farther between, might take hours and even days to resolve, the New Directions fractured and came together again surprisingly quickly.

He can hear Sam talking a mile a minute – and no, that's Sam Puppet, he amends, as he keeps his eyes shut and lets the strange, mythical quality of the choir room consume him.

Except Sam Puppet doesn't refer to Blaine's gayness seven times a minute like he usually does, and he actually sounds a lot like the real Sam, if the higher pitch and faster pace can be ignored.

Blaine opens his eyes lazily to see which Sam appears and isn't surprised that the real Sam is standing at the white board underlining the word _Legacy._

"Didn't you do that last year?" Kitty demands in her usual unflinching tone.

"We did," Sam allows, clasping his hands together and setting the marker aside. Blaine closes his eyes as the world tilts ominously for a moment, steadying himself with a hand on the adjacent chair. He can almost feel Tina's gaze on him the moment that he does it, and he wants to open his eyes and smile reassuringly at her, but the last thing he wants is to throw up in front of everyone, which he's almost positive he will if he moves.

"But this year's different," Sam continues, his voice soft but insistent, and even though the line is frayed between real Sam and Sam Puppet, Blaine can still clearly distinguish the gravity of his words. "This year, we're not just doing it for ourselves. We're doing it for Finn."

Silence settles over the choir room. Blaine blinks and focuses enough to stare at Sam, conscious of everyone else doing the same. In that, they are united, at least; not a word in protest is spoken.

Then, quietly: "I'm in."

Echoes of the same sentiment emerge across the room in nods and murmured agreements. Blaine wants to chime in his own support, but the lump in his throat is thickening, his chest tight with the memory of Finn standing in front of them six months ago, encouraging them to take sectionals by storm. He looked so _earnest, _so alive and infused with his own vitality.

It takes everything he possesses not to break down. He's managed to stay strong so far; even at the funeral, a lovely, heart-wrenching affair, he kept his calm. He isn't going to lose it now, not when everyone has just started to heal, when memorialization is on their minds.

_It's okay to cry._

The whisper of Kurt's voice – real Kurt's or Kurt Puppet's, it's almost impossible to tell in his own head – almost shatters his resolve. Almost.

He chases the echo away and then follows it into the darkness, gladly escaping from the conversation with his shoulders slouched against his seat and his eyes fixed unseeingly on the piano.

No one seems to notice his inattention. Not in real time, at least; in puppet world, he's the center of it. He can't _not _be noticed. Still, even they seem subdued, and the combined weight of real and imagined grief is so overpowering that he almost chokes on it, struggling to keep a smile on his face as Tina and Sam anxiously ask him if he's okay.

"I'm fine," he assures, and his voice is level enough that they let it go. Thankfully, no one seems to stay fixated for long in puppet world; along with the rest of the New Directions, they're eager to hear about his plans for spending his time in LA. He's reluctant to steer the conversation away from Finn, feeling as though he's dishonoring him somehow, but at Jake Puppet's insistence, he admits that he is looking forward to it. Latching onto his enthusiasm eagerly, his puppet mob presses him for details, refusing to let him get away with a short answer.

So he tells them about Cooper, leaving out his bad traits and focusing on the good. Cooper and he have been doing their best to mend their relationship, and if their Skype calls are confined to once a month and their physical interactions far fewer, then at least they have reached amicable terms. Blaine doesn't feel self-conscious telling Cooper about his plans at McKinley, and Cooper has never been shy about his burgeoning career. They find common ground and go from there and it works.

It's nice, even if only because it feels like he finally has someone that he can _talk _to. His parents have always welcomed him to tell them about his grievances, but they can't always understand what it means to be a senior and in show choir and, most importantly, working hard to make things work with his fiancé six hundred miles away. They never did long distance. While Cooper hasn't, either, he's surprisingly sympathetic to the cause, having met and promptly fallen in love with Kurt. Blaine has to remind him at least twice every conversation that Kurt is _his _fiancé, not Cooper's, even if it is colored with amusement by the degree to which Cooper enjoys Kurt's attention.

"Always remember the fans, Blainey," Cooper tells him with a smile whenever he rolls his eyes and tells him exactly how ridiculous he's being. The best part about their last Skype call was that Kurt was with him, and while it prompted even more comments from Cooper, it still meant that he could actually wrap his arms around Kurt and pretend that nothing else existed in the world for a while.

That had been nice. He smiles even as he reiterates it, falling into silence when he hears the bell ring.

Opening his eyes is a struggle as he pushes himself up in his chair, grabbing his satchel and slinging it over one shoulder. His head swims as he walks, but thankfully no one is around to see it; he can't tell if he's hurt or relieved by that, so he settles for unopposedas he slips out of the choir room and into the noisy halls.

It's nice to be ignored, his fingers fumbling the lock on his locker as he struggles to get the combination right. On the fourth try, he manages it, startling when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Fishing it out, he holds it up to his ear and asks, a little more gruffly than usual, "Yeah?"

"Hey, Stranger," Kurt says, the smile visible in his voice as Blaine struggles not to tell him to be a little quieter. The noise in the hallway is enough to make his teeth grind; he forces a smile on his face even as he fishes through his locker absentmindedly for his books. _Calc, French, lunch, _he thinks. _ History, econ, home._ If he can survive that, then he'll be fine. He just needs to make it through the day – and the phone call he's completely zoned out on, he realizes, wincing as Kurt asks, "Blaine?"

"I'm here," he assures, clearing his throat and adding, "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"Are you okay?"

Once it's out in the open, it's hard to answer in the affirmative. His head _aches. _ His back is stiff with the pain and the books are blurring a little in front of him even as he stares at the covers. Shaking himself, he musters a surprisingly steady, "I'm fine, just a rough night," to which Kurt makes a sympathetic sound and carries on.

Normally Blaine would be grateful for the reprieve from his own monotonous morning (every day this week it's been a struggle; he's looking forward to the weekend already and it's only Wednesday), but he can't suppress the nausea that arises as he forces himself to stay focused on the conversation. Reaching his limit, he begs off with a quick, "Can I call you back later?" And then, mitigating, he adds, "I have to get to class."

"Of course," Kurt says, surprise in his tone but no hurt, thankfully, as he adds, "I love you."

"Love you, too," Blaine replies softly, ending the call and pressing his hand against his forehead.

For a moment, he can't see straight, the ground reeling underneath him. He half-wonders if he is going to pass out before the white noise recedes and he can recognize the books in front of him again. Reaching out and carefully plucking the ones that he needs before depositing them in his satchel, he tucks his phone in his pocket and shuts his locker behind him, doing his best to shake the uncomfortable feeling settling under his skin, a byproduct of a headache he just can't shake.

Luckily, his calc teacher has never placed a high emphasis on class participation and Blaine is able to put his head down on his arms and drift off until the bell, jerking awake. No puppets today, he thinks, a little sadly, even as the nausea twists his stomach into knots.

Three more classes, he reminds himself, every step an effort as he makes his way to his French classroom. Three more classes.

. o .

"You need to go to the nurse."

Blaine doesn't even realize that he's been dozing off over his lunch, head cradled in his hands, until Tina's voice jerks him awake. Glancing over at her with a vexed expression, he sighs and uses one hand to rub at his eyes instead. His head hurts. _Everything _hurts. "Isn't that . . . crazy intern still the nurse?" is all he says.

"Her name is Penny and she isn't crazy," Sam interjects. Blaine can almost see the stern frown on his face, but he doesn't have the energy to lift his head, humming a little in affirmation. Even that sets his teeth on edge, and he has to grit them to keep his breakfast down.

"You look like death warmed over," Tina says bluntly, "and crazy or not, she can still give you permission to leave school. Go home."

"She's not crazy," Sam reminds, waving a fork importantly at the edges of Blaine's vision. "She's sweet with a lot of awesome talents and cool aspirations."

"None of which include actual medical practice," Tina retorts.

"Guys," Blaine warns, but Sam is already bull-dozing over his protests and he lets out a slow sigh. Sometimes he forgets _why _he likes to sit with them, other than the fact that most days his head doesn't feel like it's going to explode.

The prospect of standing is so discouraging that he stays seated, Tina on his right side and Sam directly across from him, until at last Marley appears at his left and rests a hand on his shoulder. "Need a lift?" she asks, her voice still light and teasing enough that Blaine can almost be fooled that she doesn't suspect a thing about his health (excusing the fact that he's almost positive he actually looks as bad as he feels; Kurt at least can pull off the perfect-health visage until complete incapacitation, but Blaine goes down hard at the first set of sniffles). Before he can respond he's being tugged to his feet, and the soft groan that slips past his lips is utterly involuntary and, thankfully, almost inaudible.

Still. The world rocks ominously beneath his feet, each step a struggle as they move away from the crowded cafeteria. "Stop," he whispers, once they're outside the cafeteria, because the last thing he wants is to throw up _now, _but he's not entirely sure he can hold back if he takes another step.

Thankfully, Marley doesn't challenge him, letting him lean against the lockers and sink to the floor a moment later, head cradled in his hands. "I'm getting the nurse," she replies, voice tight with worry, and he doesn't have the heart to reply, so he just nods faintly and curls in a little tighter on himself, chanting, _You're fine, you're fine, you're fine _over and over in a vague attempt to wind mind over matter.

The last thing he hears before his world goes completely dark are Tina and Sam's voices, mingling apology and worry as they step out of the cafeteria and promptly stop arguing.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Hi, y'all.

Please don't be mad.

More to come soon.

Thank you for reading; please don't forget to review!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

Kurt feels almost giddy as he unties his apron, his hands shaking with excitement. Just one more day until they get to perform at _Williamsburg Music Hall, _and if Blaine stays true to his word, then he'll be there to see it. The mere thought of being so close to mainstream exposure makes it almost impossible for Kurt to concentrate on work. All he wants to do is beg off for the rest of the week to prepare, but he knows that Gunther is being generous already with his schedule. No need to antagonize his boss to cope with his own excitement, Kurt reminds himself. They have plenty of time to rehearse between shifts and, besides, the moment will come just as quickly either way.

Best of all, though, he only has three more hours until Blaine flies in. He's already traded a late shift with Rachel so that he can meet Blaine at the airport. And with Santana staying at Dani's for the night, they'll have at least four hours of alone time at the loft.

It's perfect. It might be precious rehearsal time, but he hardly thinks of it as a loss. Besides, if Pamela Lansbury _does _go mainstream, then they'll more than make up for a few hours missed in the end.

Tying the apron up on the rack and clocking out, Kurt lets out a deep breath of relief as he tugs on his own jacket. Evening shifts may be grueling at times, but at least the wealthier clientele never seems far behind the performers that like to trickle in after six; agreeing to a ten-to-four shift is an even greater test of Kurt's mental stamina to stay focused on the job and not wistful imaginings about his band's future success.

They still haven't performed in front of a large audience. For all he knows, they'll be booed off the stage, scorned by the community and rejected by their peers. It's a devastating possibility, but he struggles to even entertain it, convinced that with Elliot's vocal range, Santana's dexterity, Rachel's Broadway voice, and Dani's own formidable talents, they can't fail. (Not to mention his own fearless leadership and perfectly attuned countertenor, but he already knows that he's a strong asset to the group.)

Humming to himself as he pulls out his phone, he frowns as he turns it on again, surprised that he left it off in the first place. Idling out of the crowded back-of-the-house to the slightly less crowded main floor, he ignores Dani's inquisitive "Where are you going?" and waves a hand dismissively as he exits the diner.

As his phone comes to life, he notices the little phone icon at the bottom of the screen first.

There are fifteen missed calls on his phone. Six are recent, all from his dad.

Kurt feels sick, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, his stomach plummeting. _It's not him, _he reminds himself forcefully, borderline hysterical because it can't be, Carole his a phone, she would call him from hers if it was his dad, if it was serious, but it must not be his dad because his dad is the one calling him, so it –

He closes his eyes and for a moment forgets how to breathe. _Blaine._

Then he forces himself to open his eyes and sidestep the pedestrians milling around him so he can put his back against solid concrete, because he isn't sure if he can keep his feet underneath him if he doesn't. _It's nothing, _he tells himself, the white noise in his ears making it almost impossible to process anything other than _Dad (6)._

The earlier ones seem innocuous – seven took place before noon, five of them from Rachel and two from Elliot – but two of the later ones are from Tina, mere minutes before his dad. It doesn't seem like a coincidence, not when Kurt knows that his dad works from eight to five on weekdays and Tina doesn't call him _during _school unless –

Shakily, he dials his dad's number, holding the phone up to his ear and struggling to remember how to breathe normally. _It's nothing, _he tells himself, chanting it like it'll somehow make it so. _You're overreacting. It's nothing._

But he remembers last time this happened, and it takes everything in him not to break down and sob when his dad's voice finally asks gruffly, "Kiddo?"

"Dad," he says, expelling the word in a breathless gasp, his fingers clutching the phone so tightly that he's afraid he's going to crush it before he can even get the words out. "What happened? Is Blaine okay?"

"He's fine."

Kurt's knees feel weak. The relief aches in his soul, so intense that he can barely breathe. "What happened?" he demands again, somehow even more breathless than before but steadier, less likely to tip over the edge of sanity.

"He passed out at school." Kurt's fingers tense around the phone, but he doesn't say a word as his dad adds, "He's fine. They took him to the ER and they're checking him out now –"

"Where are you?" Kurt asks. He doesn't know where the impulse comes from; he only knows it is right. Somehow his feet are moving, and he's grateful that everyone in New York is always too busy to care about everyone else, because right now he doesn't think he could bear to be noticed. Melding in with the crowds is so much easier; he already knows the route back to the loft by heart. "Are you at the hospital? Is he?"

"His parents are out of town," his dad admits. "I'm in the lobby now. I tried to reach you earlier –"

"I'm so sorry, my phone was off." Kurt's throat threatens to close up on him again as he pauses at the sidewalk's edge as the light turns red, trying to understand how he could have missed this, how he could have possibly lived in such blissful ignorance that he didn't _know _his fiance was in the hospital.

His fiance is in the hospital. The thought alone makes him walk a little faster when the light finally goes green, the apartment so very, terribly far away.

"Tell me more," he demands, and his dad does. He doesn't know much, but he knows enough: Tina called him in a panic and Burt called to try and placate him, and the cumulative effect was more phone calls to stress Kurt out than either wanted. Kurt bites his lip and says nothing. The more his dad talks (and the subsequent less Kurt learns about Blaine's actual condition), the more he feels like he's going to be sick.

"I'm coming home," he blurts, and hangs up before he can second-guess himself. Guilt washes over him a moment later, but he's at the foot of the apartment, now, and he takes the stairs two at a time, shoving the loft door back carelessly.

"You're back early," Rachel says, flipping through a magazine on the couch. There's music playing softly in the background, but Kurt barely hears it, the ringing in his ears loud and obtrusive as he storms across the floor, bee-lining for his bedroom. "Kurt?" Rachel prods, worry lacing her tone as she gets to her feet. Kurt packs a bag even as he hears her turn off the music and pad over to him, leaning against the door and frowning as Kurt grabs a stack of essentials and stuffs it carelessly away. "What are you doing?"

"Blaine's in the hospital." His voice is wavering already and he feels perilously near tears as he adds, "I'm going home."

Rachel doesn't speak, frozen, before stepping forward and asking in a low, worried tone, "What happened, is he –"

"He's fine," Kurt says. Even as he says it, the words feel wrong – Blaine isn't fine, he's in the hospital, he's in the hospital and Kurt is six hundred miles away, and something isn't _right _– but he can't bring himself to say all of that, so he tenses his jaw and heaves his bag over one shoulder. "I'm going to the airport. I'll book a flight on the way."

Rachel doesn't respond, only stepping aside to let him out of the room as he stalks past her.

"What should I do about our gig?" Rachel asks, her voice surprisingly steely. Resolved. Resigned, Kurt amends, as he turns to face her briefly, seeing the pain and mingled concern in her eyes.

"You could come, too," he says softly, and she folds her arms across her chest, hugging herself, visibly torn. He knows that uprooting is hard, even for crises – airports are disasters and flights are never on time and everything can go _wrong _– before at last she lets out a slow breath.

"Someone has to watch the apartment," she reminds.

Kurt nods, accepting the rejection as he steps outside the door and calls back softly, "Don't cancel yet. It might not be serious."

In his heart-of-hearts, he knows, it doesn't matter how serious or not serious it is: he won't be back tomorrow.

Not until he's positive that Blaine is okay.

The door slides shut heavily behind him, leaving Rachel alone in his wake, and a long walk ahead of him.

He takes the first step and fishes out his phone, already calling his dad once more.

"I'm sorry," he says, as he emerges on the street below, aware of the silence on the other end, the patience. "Thank you. For telling me."

"It's okay, Kurt," is all his dad says, and Kurt has to fight to keep the tears at bay, his fingers clinging to his dad's words.

_It's okay. It has to be._

He doesn't give his evening plans a second thought as he books the first flight that he can find and takes off for La Guardia airport.

. o .

There are voices in his head. It takes him a moment to recognize the first as Sam's, then Tina's, then someone he doesn't know, startled, alarmed. He tries to tell them that it's too early to be fussing over anything – it's too early to be _alive _– but they don't seem to notice his vague attempts at communication. His mouth doesn't want to cooperate and his limbs feel heavy; after a moment he realizes how futile it is to try and talk at all and gives up, sinking below until someone calls his name incessantly, Blaine, Blaine, Blaine, _Blaine_.

He blinks awake, vision hazy but clear enough that he can see Marley smacking Sam on the back of the head, already snapping something Blaine can't understand at him. He lifts a hand in a placating gesture and realizes that it's shaking, setting it back by his knee before they can notice. "I'm fine," he assures them, but none of them are listening, Tina biting her lip and Sam arguing pointedly with Marley while some girl – Penny, Penny, her name is Penny – stands nearby, wringing her hands anxiously. "Guys," he says, and it's enough to shut them up, at least, before he adds in a tired slur, "I'm fine. Stop it."

Sitting up against the locker that he's leaning against makes the vertigo return full force, and one moment he's blinking in utter darkness, the next staring up dazedly at a ring of bright, bright lights.

He turns his head away from them and shuts his eyes. Someone knuckles his sternum – _hard _– and he grunts as he reaches up a hand to swat at them.

There are different voices now, but he doesn't recognize any of them. Sam, Tina, and Marley are gone, and a momentary spike of panic thrusts him back into full consciousness as he stares up at the bright lights and tries to understand anything.

"What's going on?" he demands, his voice thick to his own ears, indecipherable above the indeterminable chatter above him. Someone pauses to answer him, but the words are a long string amid the rest of the chaos and he can't understand them, either. The headache is blinding, terrible.

He doesn't drift into the darkness again, but he loses track of time, one moment in the back of a truck – an ambulance, he reminds himself, it must be an ambulance, or else he really is being kidnapped and that's too chilling to consider – before he's being carted down a hallway.

There are voices above and around him now, and all he wants is to sit up and snap at them to stop _talking _because all their efforts are making his headache near unbearable. Then another person – a woman – addresses him directly.

"Can you hear me?"

He grunts in acknowledgment. Talking seems useless.

"I need you to respond with words, okay?"

Another grunt. It's rude and he's been raised better, but he doesn't feel like talking. He's afraid that if he opens his mouth, all the spinning in his head will make him vomit. The last thing he wants is to vomit on himself or, God forbid, someone else.

"What's your name?"

"Blaine." He keeps the word crisp, clipped, but it still takes a long syllable to grate out.

"Do you know where you are?"

He takes a moment to look around and a slow, shallow breath. "Hospital," he rasps. His stomach sinks. "Why'm I here?" he asks.

"You passed out at school," the same woman explains, and he notices her for the first time to his left, long black hair tucked neatly over one shoulder, medical scrubs immaculate. "How are you feeling?"

"Hurts."

"What hurts?"

He makes a vague gesture at his head. His vision flickers as he struggles to keep his eyes open.

"Blaine? I need you to stay awake." She sounds almost apologetic, but he knows better. His blood chills at the memory; blood and pain and needles and noise and confusion and no one would tell him anything, no one would even stop to let him _breathe _because breathing hurt so much that he couldn't draw in any air, he was strangling on nothing and –

He draws in a slow, shivering breath. His chest aches with phantom pain and his mouth runs dry, but thankfully he finds his voice a little steadier as he says, "I'm awake."

"Good. I need you to answer a few more questions for me, okay?"

"Okay."

"What's your full name?"

That's easy. "Blaine Devon Anderson," he says.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Where do you go to school?"

He draws a blank for a moment, _Hawthorne _already on his lips before he answers, "McKinley."

"Good." Then, appeased, she explains, "I'm Dr. Haley. Your friends contacted us because you had a seizure."

_Seizure._

The word seems sinister even in the hush of Blaine's thoughts. He can barely form the words, struggling to speak at all as he asks softly, "What?"

Dr. Haley doesn't seem overly bothered by his distress, which seems wrong to him, terribly wrong, because he's never – _never – _had a seizureand it's no surprise that Tina and Sam and Marley were so anxious. He closes his eyes, already regretting leaving them alone, wanting to somehow help them even though he can't even help himself when at last Dr. Haley speaks. "Have you ever had a seizure before?"

Blaine shakes his head. Words are difficult, but silence is easy, and all he wants to do is sink into the blanket of consciousness again, leaving his achy body to cope with itself for a while. Surely it can manage as much.

"We'd like to do an MRI scan," Dr. Haley is saying. He doesn't hear her. He can't over the rattle of his own breath in his chest, his own terror overwhelming him momentarily as the weight of the word – _seizure _– sinks in his chest.

_Am I okay?_

It seems like such an absurd question. Of course he is. He has to be. He's been stressed, planning for Glee club, but it's nothing serious. It can't be serious.

He might have missed a meal here or there, might have pushed himself harder than he should have, but people overworked themselves all the time and they were fine. They weren't _here, _lying on a hospital bed with strangers around him. They were fine.

_He _was fine.

He has to be.

"We've already been in touch with your emergency contact," Dr. Haley points out, mercifully pulling him away from his frantic thoughts. He eyes her skeptically for a moment, recalling dazedly that he filled out those silly little blue cards at the beginning of the school year for precisely this purpose: _contact in case of emergency._ "Your parents were unavailable," she adds. The question in her voice is obvious and echoed almost immediately by his own.

_What?_

Panic threatens to overtake him at the thought that his parents aren't there (he just had a _seizure _and his parents aren't there) and he thinks about sitting up and demanding his release (they can't actually hold him against his will, after all, he _is _an adult) before slouching back against the pillow a little more.

_No, they wouldn't be._

Blaine can't help it; he lets out a soft, rueful laugh as he explains, "They're in Chicago. For a . . . a convention." Tipping his head back a little so he can get a better look at his surroundings, he closes his eyes at a new wave of dizziness and breathes out slowly to control the nausea. He's aware that everything hurts a lot more than it did before, like he's gone on a hard run, or gone three days without sleep.

The latter seems more accurate as it tugs at him, threatening to pull him under completely. Even concentrating on their conversation is becoming increasingly difficult. He wonders if he'll even be allowed to sleep once she leaves. _Probably not, _he thinks, looking around and trying to take in the scene around him, a handful of other patients partitioned off and attended to by other nurses and doctors to varying degrees of discomfort.

Dr. Haley doesn't respond immediately, instead consulting a chart and asking another nurse if she can set him up with an IV. He flinches but doesn't speak, his fingers curling a little more around the bed sheets. _You had a seizure. _Refusal of treatment remains an option, but the hollow pit in his stomach tells him that he doesn't dare. He needs to _know._

Dr. Haley tells him everything that they're planning – they still need to get him registered and check out his medical history before they give him anything more than fluids – but he can't focus on it. Exhaustion presses in on his chest until it's almost unbearable, his head throbbing with every beat of his heart, a soft groan of discomfort escaping him even as Dr. Haley offers an apologetic farewell and promise to return soon.

Closing his eyes to try and ease the pounding behind them, he asks the nurse that takes her place, "When is he coming?"

He can feel her gaze on him, curious. "Who?"

"My emergency contact," Blaine replies slowly. Now that he has his eyes shut, it's harder to work up the energy to open them again. The emergency room lights are bright. He prefers the quasi-darkness of his own head, aching though it may be, to the over-sharp edges of reality. It's almost possible to pretend that he isn't here at all, that it – _seizure _– didn't happen.

"Fifteen minutes," the nurse answers, drawing him back to the present and swabbing the back of his hand. He flinches, forcing himself to calm down. It's just a needle. It's nothing. "Take a deep breath," she suggests. "This only takes a moment." She has a nice voice, Blaine thinks, calm and uncomplicated. "We're waiting on Radiology; as soon as they're ready, we'll take you back for some scans." He hisses when the needle and catheter go in, relaxing once she finishes setting up the IV and tapes it to the back of his hand. "See? Easy."

"Easy," he grunts.

She smiles at him – he doesn't need to look to know she's _smiling _– and somehow even through his disgruntlement he manages a tiny smile. Niceness is contagious. He would know; the Glee club is always involved in some big project or another, and just being around people so _passionate _about something is enough to bring his mood up.

He loses track of time again as the nurse walks him through his medical history, aware that he's slurring his answers and unable to stop. She doesn't berate him and, following her lead, he doesn't make a greater effort, relieved to be left alone at last.

Drifting peacefully through a state of half-awareness, never fully away from the emergency room but not quite awake, either, he slips into a light sleep that seems to last a mere second before Burt's gruff voice is overhead, his weight settling into a nearby chair. They're in a room, alone. It seems strange to Blaine, the silence, after so much indistinguishable noise.

"You awake?" Burt asks.

Blaine lets out a low hum that might be affirmation. Talking is too much effort. Burt knows. He has to.

"I'll stay as long as you need me to," Burt says, reaching out to give his untethered hand a squeeze.

Blaine's heart tightens in his chest at the gesture, and he lets out another, softer hum as he turns his hand over and squeezes Burt's back lightly. "Thank you," he rasps, flexing his fingers a little when Burt releases them.

"Any time," is all Burt says.

Blaine wants to speak – to ask him about his day, to apologize for the inconvenience of dragging him away from his work, to express his terror over the inexplicable – but all he can focus on is sleep.

So he releases a soft sigh and he lets go, trusting Burt to field any unwanted visitors. As long as Burt is there, it can't be so bad.

He's fine.

He has to be.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Hi, y'all. Thank you so much for your support. I can't express in words how much it means to me, but I will be responding to all your lovely messages soon.

More coming soon, of the sweet 'n' snuggly variety. Stick around. Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoyed.

Please review!


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